by Jeremy Bates
“When Sal comes back,” she went on, “we’ll wait until dark. Maybe the gunman won’t be outside tonight. Or if he is, we’ll wait until he falls asleep. Then we’ll make a break for it. Okay?”
The door opened again. This time Creep stood at the threshold. He looked directly at her and said, “You, your turn.”
She gave Thunder’s hand an affectionate squeeze, then glanced over at Miranda. The girl was sitting on a chair, staring at the ground. She hadn’t moved or said a word since Joanna was shot. “Sit tight, Miranda,” she said, then followed Creep outside.
It was an absurdly bright and sunny day, the kind of day you go for a picnic in the park or a stroll along the beach. Not one in which you had some lunatic sticking his gun in your back and marching you toward an uncertain future.
Before they reached the church—which Scarlett assumed the terrorists were using as a makeshift HQ given the limited alternatives—Creep ordered her to turn down an overgrown path that ran the length of one of the smaller buildings. She continued to the end, then stopped. There was nothing ahead of her except grass and, beyond that, the base of a hill prickled with trees.
“Move,” Creep said. “Straight.”
“Where to?”
“You go. Okay? Go.”
Scarlett continued forward. With each step the sinking sensation in her gut deepened. This wasn’t right. Why was he taking her to the forest, away from everyone else—?
She came to an abrupt halt, turned, and looked Creep in the eyes. They were swimming with lust. Just like on the riverboat. Just like in the forest.
Scarlett went cold all over.
Seeing that she understood his intentions, Creep’s single eyebrow dipped in the middle, forming the letter M. Scarlett made to run, but he grabbed her hair and yanked her backward. He clamped a hand over her mouth and tugged her body against his. He pulled up her dress. His fingers dug beneath the elastic waistband of her panties, tearing them away. To her disgust, she felt that he was already aroused.
She twisted wildly, but couldn’t shake free. She bit into the hand over her mouth with all the ferocity she could muster. She tasted a gush of hot blood and a chunk of flesh. Creep howled in pain. His grip slackened. She managed to push away, but before she could make it two steps, he had her again, spinning her around and slapping her so hard she fell to her back.
Then he was on her.
Scarlett screamed.
He slapped her a second time. When she blinked away the stars, her dress was up around her waist; his pants were down around his knees. She thrashed from side to side, but he was too heavy. She couldn’t buck him off her. He flicked aside her necklaces, yanked at the neckline of her dress. Buttons popped. Desperate, she grabbed the three-inch lion claw that Cooper had given her and raked it across Creep’s face, drawing a long gash down his left cheek. She swung it again, this time jabbing it into his forehead and tugging down, through his eye.
Clear fluid erupted, like juice squeezed from a grape. Roaring now, Creep rolled off her, allowing her to crab-crawl away. He looked up at her, one hand cupped under the dead eye in a losing effort to catch the pooling, overflowing blood. His seeing eye radiated pure hatred.
Scarlett shot to her feet and ran as fast as she could toward the forest, propelled by sheer terror. Above her labored breathing she could hear Creep giving chase right behind her. The forest drew closer, thick and impenetrable. Her screaming mind told her it would stop her dead in her tracks, but she didn’t know where else to go. If he catches you he’s going to rape and kill you—rape and kill you after he cuts out your eyes to get even…
She spotted a gaping crevice in the hill. It was about the size of a door and framed by slabs of stone and timber and so overgrown with vegetation she hadn’t seen it from farther away.
A mine entrance?
She didn’t care. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was getting away.
She made a beeline toward it.
The waist-high grass flapped past her legs. The ground was hard and uneven, and she kept expecting herself to trip and fall. She never did. If she did, she would die. Then, before she knew it, she was rushing straight into the mouth of the mine, raising her arms for protection against the vines and branches that snapped past her face. Darkness engulfed her. She charged deeper, one hand surfing the stone wall. She was running too fast, too reckless. She was going to hit something. Still, she barely slowed.
She could hear Creep right on her heels. All he had to do was reach out and—
The ground lurched. Scarlett stumbled and smacked wooden boards, which swung wildly beneath her weight. Creep tripped over her, going down as well. She scrambled on all fours past him. One of her arms plunged between the planks into nothingness.
How far up was she? What was below?
Just as she freed her arm, Creep reached her, his hands tearing at her clothes, his body writhing against hers, his putrid breath wafting over her.
Suddenly her dress was up around her waist again. The boards scraped and chafed her bare legs and rear. She felt it on top of her. Small. Hard. Poking. She was revolted.
He was trying to pry her legs apart. She squeezed them more tightly together.
Then there was a sharp, whip-like crack, followed immediately by another.
Scarlett felt herself falling.
CHAPTER 29
“If you don’t get him to talk,” Jahja told Sal, “I will kill you. Do you understand that?”
Sal stared at Damien Fitzgerald. The assassin was strapped to a wooden chair, his legs extended straight out in front of him, his pants rolled up to reveal ripped and bleeding shins. Skin hung away in flaps that exposed the flesh beneath. Next to the chair was the two-by-four which he assumed the terrorists had scraped up and down the man’s shins, like a cheese grater.
Good.
“What do you want to know?” Sal asked.
“Who he is. What he is doing here.”
“His name is Damien Fitzgerald. He’s a halfwit assassin.”
Sal went on to explain everything he knew, from the Prince Tower fire to what Danny had learned from Don Xi in Macau. The entire time he kept his eyes fixed on the Irishman, who didn’t seem to notice or care. It was as if he’d withdrawn into himself.
“Here’s some proof,” he finished, taking the tracking device from his pocket.
Jahja examined it. “This is true? What you tell me?”
“Why would I lie?”
Jahja nodded. “Yes, maybe I do believe you. And if this is the case, it would be only prudent to get rid of the assassin. I see no further need of him.”
Fitzgerald finally looked at Sal. His eyes were daggers.
Abruptly a woman screamed. It was distant and shrill. A man cried out in what sounded like excruciating pain moments later.
Jahja and the two gunmen exchanged a few quick words in Arabic. Then Jahja and the goon with the beard ran outside, while the one with the mustache went to the church entrance but didn’t leave. Sal remained where he was, wondering what the hell was happening. His helplessness, his inability to act, enraged him.
“You’re a fecking pillock,” Fitzgerald said.
Sal looked at him. “That’s the best you got?”
“Do you want to live?”
“You’re asking me that?” he said, amazed. “You’re about to be executed, my friend.”
“And you soon after.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
But in truth Sal was concerned. He wasn’t dealing with rational people. They’d shot Joanna in cold blood, and they’d said nothing so far about ransom negotiations. So what if he’d been wrong all along? What if they didn’t want money? If that was true, then the Irishman was right. He was living on borrowed time.
“I can help get you out of this,” Fitzgerald told him. “First give me your word you’ll release me afterward.”
“Fine.” Sal shrugged. “You have it. My word.”
“Is it worth anything?”
&nbs
p; “It’s worth your life. Do you have any other choice?”
Fitzgerald straightened in the chair and pulled his legs in, grimacing with the effort. “I’m going to make a distraction,” he explained. “When the wanker by the door comes to investigate, you grab the two-by-four and take him out.”
“That’s it?”
“What the feck else do you want? A sodding airstrike? Take him out. Take his weapon. Get rid of the other two when they return. Do you have a better idea?”
Sal ran the plan through his head. It could work.
“Time’s running out,” Fitzgerald said. “Make an executive decision.”
Sal let the jibe pass. “Fine.”
“Step back, closer to the two-by-four.”
Sal stepped back.
Fitzgerald rolled his eyes up in his head and started convulsing.
“Hey!” Sal shouted. “Help him!”
The gunman returned from the entrance, cautious, likely expecting a trick. The AK-47 was gripped tightly in both hands. Sal took another step back, giving him room, while positioning himself closer to the two-by-four. The gunman didn’t try to help Fitzgerald. He just stood there, watching him convulse. The distraction wasn’t going to work, Sal thought in frustration. There would be no chance to grab the piece of wood. He glanced at the entrance. The other two would be back soon. He had to do something—
Fitzgerald’s legs shot out and locked around the gunman’s left knee. He jerked his body sideways, sending himself and the chair and the gunman all crashing to the floor. The gunman’s cocked elbows struck the stone, hard, causing him to release the assault rifle, which clattered harmlessly away.
Sal took two quick steps and snatched up the two-by-four. He swung it with all his strength at the back of the gunman’s head. It struck with a satisfying crack, like a home run. The man’s skull caved in, and he went limp.
“Quickly now, move the body,” Fitzgerald barked from his position on his side. “They can see it from the entrance. Then take his rifle and get to one side of the door, out of sight, out of their line of fire. As soon as they enter, spray them from behind. They won’t be expecting it.”
Sal didn’t like taking orders, but what the Irishman said made sense. He dragged the corpse between two front rows of pews and picked up the assault rifle.
“Is it on semi- or full-automatic?” Fitzgerald asked.
“Hell if I know.”
“See the selector? If it’s in the lowest position, it’s on single fire.”
Sal moved it up. “It’s in the middle now.”
“Good. Pull back and release the charging handle.”
Sal followed the instructions, then went to the narthex, which was nothing more than a barren stone rectangle. He pressed himself into the corner adjacent to the tall doors as he heard voices approaching, chattering urgently in Arabic.
When the two terrorists stepped into view, Sal squeezed the trigger. The roar of gunfire was deafening in the small enclosure, punctuated by the fragile sound of expended casings striking the stone floor. The terrorist with the beard dropped. But his body acted as a shield, protecting Jahja, who immediately leapt back through the church doors.
Sal charged after him, itching to let loose another burst of bullets. As soon as he stepped outside, however, two gunshots boomed. He pivoted back inside. “Christ!” he swore, peering out the doors right as Jahja ducked into the building-cum-prison.
Go after him or wait?
Before Sal could answer that question, Jahja burst back outside, holding Miranda against his chest, the pistol to her head. “Don’t shoot!” he shouted. “I’ll kill her!”
Sal aimed the rifle. They were two hundred fifty feet away.
Jahja backed up, keeping Miranda between himself and the church.
He was going to make a break for it.
Sal considered letting Jahja go, but quickly changed his mind. He might regroup with the remaining gunman, wherever he was, making it two against one. Or he might double back to the riverboat and return with the two gunmen they had left behind. Which left only one option.
Sal peered through the iron sight, said a silent apology to the embassy girl, and squeezed the trigger. Bullets chewed the ground ten feet in front of Miranda and Jahja.
He aimed higher, fired again.
Miranda’s body jerked and flapped like a shirt caught in a strong wind. Jahja’s face stretched wide in surprise. He shoved aside the dead girl, let off two shots, and ran. But a bullet must have hit him, or gone through Miranda and into him, because after a few steps he dropped the pistol and sank to his knees. He started to crawl.
Sal left the cover of the church and approached cautiously, the rifle’s laminated wood butt stock pressed tightly against his shoulder, his left hand on the forend grip, his right on the pistol grip, his index finger taking up the slack in the trigger. He reached the discarded pistol, picked it up, and crossed the final few feet to Jahja, who was still trying to crawl away. Pathetic. He put his foot solidly on the man’s back and shoved him to the ground.
Jahja rolled over. His eyes burned with black hatred.
“Allahu Akbar!” he shouted, blood spurting from his mouth.
Sal raised the handgun and squeezed the trigger.
Jahja flopped to his side. His legs twitched. Then he lay still.
Resisting the urge to empty the entire magazine into the fanatic, knowing he needed to save ammunition, Sal returned to the church to finish the Irishman off. He didn’t care if he had given his word or not, the man was too dangerous to set free.
As soon as Sal entered the nave, however, he froze. The overturned chair in the transept was empty.
Damien Fitzgerald was gone.
CHAPTER 30
Blackness and pain. Christ, the pain! Was she hung over? That’s what it felt like. The worst damn hangover in the existence of alcohol. Everything throbbed—her head, her arms, her shoulders, her butt.
The fall.
Scarlett opened her eyes. More blackness, more pain. She sat up and cried out. Her back felt broken. She knew that couldn’t be true though; if it were, she wouldn’t be sitting up. She blinked, but there wasn’t anything to see except darkness. Her head was muzzy—mashed potatoes—but she pulled herself together and knew she must be somewhere in the bowels of the mine. She remembered falling for what seemed an incredibly long time…and then nothing.
She tried to stand. Every muscle in her body cried out in protest, as if she were doing something unnatural. She instinctively looked up, but couldn’t make out anything.
How far had she fallen? Twenty feet? Twenty-five? More? Did it matter? Well, yes, because she had to somehow get the hell back out. She thought it could have been twenty-five feet or more. That was not cheerful news.
She shuffled around, trying to get a feel for her surroundings. Her foot brushed something warm and hairy. She yelped, jumping away.
It was Creep. Had to be. She must have landed on him. He broke her fall. That’s why she only felt like an animated corpse and wasn’t actually one.
Steeling her nerve, she checked his pulse.
None. He was dead.
“Thank God,” she said softly. Reassured by the sound of her voice, she added, “You deserved it, you sick bastard.”
Scarlett padded around for his assault rifle, touched cool metal, worked the strap loose from around his neck, and hooked it over her shoulder. Right. Now what? A gun wasn’t going to do much good against darkness. She probed blindly with outstretched arms. It took her a few minutes because she was moving slow, not wanting to knock her head on something, but she eventually determined she was in a tunnel approximately five feet wide.
Given that she could only go one way or the other, she went right, hoping it didn’t lead her deeper underground. She walked cautiously, one hand against the rocky wall. With each step, her head cleared and she became more frightened as the reality of her new predicament settled over her like a lead cloak, wanting to crush her strength, her spirit.
The mine could be like an ant farm, with hundreds of tunnels zigzagging every which way. How would she ever navigate her way out? There were likely animals around as well. Certainly bats and insects. Maybe something worse. Maybe something huge and reptilian and ancient that hadn’t been discovered yet because it lived in the middle of the Congo at the bottom of an abandoned mine.
Fresh panic fluttered in Scarlett’s gut. What if she never reached the surface? How long would she last? Even if she was lucky enough to find water—flowing water, not a dirty, stagnant pool—she would never find food. She would be doomed to die the slow and painful death of starvation, not much more than skin and a skull on an emancipated body, her final moments spent curled up in a fetal position, as if rigor knew what was coming and decided to prematurely settle in.
Then again, she thought, she might slip and crack her head long before that.
Abruptly her hand brushed a vertical strip of wood.
A ladder.
A tremor of relief rocked her body. She gripped the worn and roughly hewn parallel stringers and tried to rattle them. They were solid, affixed somehow to the stone wall.
Scarlett climbed.
Ten feet up the rock closed in around her so she was ascending through a tight tunnel drilled through the earth. Twenty feet. Thirty. Thirty-five. Had she really fallen this far? When was the shaft going to end?
A rung snapped under her weight.
Scarlett cried out, her feet dangling in the air. Holding on only by her hands, she kicked frantically until she found purchase. She clung fiercely to the left upright, her breath coming in deep and ragged gasps in the dark.
Once she got herself under control, she continued upward, now stepping on the outermost edges of each rung, which she thought would be stronger. It turned out she’d been almost at the top because several steps later the ladder came to an end, the top poking a couple feet above the floor of a new lateral shaft. Carefully, very carefully, she shifted onto the dirt ground, where she flipped onto her back, grateful to have something beneath her again. She stared into the blackness, listening to her breathing. Then she frowned—in a good way. Was the air less stuffy, less dank? Was this the original level she’d been on before crashing through the rope bridge?
